


Roped In

by yeaka



Category: Maleficent (2014)
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 02:51:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2716181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The captain greets the watchman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roped In

**Author's Note:**

> Gen version is [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2715653)
> 
> A/N: The captain of Stefan’s guards doesn’t seem to have a name, but I think the actor’s name is John, so I’m using that. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Maleficent or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He walks when he wants to run, because he’s the captain and his position matters. It’s the only thing that will get them out of this, and with all of his traitorous, mutinous thoughts towards his king, it matters that he keeps his appearance in check. Until they’re free, at least. Then he’ll run when he hears this man is caught, instead of this measured drudge that has his stomach turning. 

There’s chatter wafting up the spiral stairs, louder when he reaches the bottom, turns into the stone dungeon with all lit sconces on the walls, the flames casting an orange glow around the group of guards in the corner. They’re circled around one of the columns attached to the low ceiling, some muttering nervously, others jeering. One of them loops a finger into the prisoner’s coat and tugs the black collar aside, revealing a pale neck with strange indents. The prisoner turns his head away with his pointed nose wrinkled in disgust and irritation. The captain makes his steps purposefully louder, drawing all his guards’ attention. 

He glares at the man whose grubby fingers are still resting on Diaval’s shoulder. Paling, the guard steps back. They should know by now that John doesn’t tolerate the mistreatment of prisoners, whatever they’re suspected of. He stops barely a meter from the guards and says in that grave, militant tone than usually sends lesser men scrambling, “Leave us.”

“But sir,” one of the guards says, pointing a blunt finger between Diaval’s pure-black eyes. “He’s one of them faerie folk—just look at the marks on his face.”

“He’s no such thing,” John snaps, looking harshly at the speaker but wishing he could give Diaval a sympathetic glance instead. They should’ve cleared this long ago, so it wouldn’t have to come to this. Carefully placed hair and high collars can only hide so much. Evidently, none of those here are aware that this is hardly Diaval’s first trip to the castle, but then, most of it was under feathers, and clearly none of them knows a raven when they see one. Carefully wording his not-quite-lie, John says, “Skin defects are hardly exclusive to magic.” Diaval lifts his eyebrows and frowns; John knows he’s going to get a talking-to later over ‘defect.’ Still, he insists, “Honestly, if he had magic readily available, do you think you would’ve been able to capture him so easily?” Again, Diaval’s expression flares with insult, but it’s necessary. “I know this man. I’ve met him many times. You’ve let your paranoia get the best of you.” The king’s paranoia, but that’s an argument for another time. 

The guard who spoke looks chastised. All of them shuffle nervously, disappointedly; no one likes to be dressed-down by a superior officer. He nods over his shoulder towards the stairs and insists, “Leave us while I apologize to this good man.” This time they listen, and as they bustle off towards the main exit, John calls over his shoulder to the regular guard at the opening, “You too.” As there are no other prisoners, the cells all empty, the man nods and follows his comrades up the steps. 

And that leaves John to shake his head and step towards his bound lover, tied all around the middle with a mass of ropes. Before he gets in trouble for his explanation, he sighs, “I apologize on behalf of my men.”

“Hmph,” Diaval grunts, with good reason. It took some fair work to convince him the captain of King Stefan’s guards was ever on his side to begin with, and incidents like this aren’t helping. 

“I am sorry.” And then he has to add, because it needs to be said, “But you really must be more careful, unless you want to find yourself permanently locked in a royal cage.”

Diaval’s face twists into something adorably close to a pout, and he says, “I was just trying to be helpful. It’s difficult to have you talk to me without me able to speak human back, and you say it’s too dangerous at the wall, and I honestly didn’t think in this beautiful body I’d get such a cold reception.”

It’s John’s turn to lift an eyebrow. He can’t help but grin, chiding fondly, “I thought you considered this body nothing to your natural glory.” Although, in truth, John quite agrees; Diaval is a beautiful man in this form. Diaval makes a dismissing, though prideful shrug with his shoulders, somehow both brushing the remark aside and retaining his self-compliment. John simply chuckles and doesn’t press it. Particularly in the warm light of just fire, Diaval’s pale skin and black highlights make him especially striking, and John supposes that he can’t be too harsh on his prisoner; he does, after all, rather like the concept of Diaval in his home. However troublesome that home can be. 

He takes the final step closer, pressing their bodies together, just the ropes between them, and leans forward to brush his lips along Diaval’s. It’s been entirely too long. His touch is gentle at first, closed and chaste, and Diaval is still against him, perhaps punishing him for his poor description earlier, but then a few seconds pass, and John is still lingering there, and Diaval breaks and seizes forward, grinding his mouth hard into John’s and opening right up. His tongue slips along the seam of John’s lips, bids them open, and when John instantly complies, Diaval plunges inside, hungry and wanting. He strains against his bonds to press closer, grinds himself into John, and John is merciful and does the rest of their work, flattening their chests together. His chain mail over-shirt chafes against the ropes, and his hands lift to Diaval’s hips, slipping in just below where the rope ends, Diaval’s hands bound next to them. But all of Diaval’s energy is in his mouth right now, kissing John wildly and desperately, like none of his trip was ever for spying, simply pleasure. The people of the Moors seem to have all the time in the world for pleasure, don’t understand the human withdrawal from it, and not for the first time, John wishes his life were so simple that he could dive, headfirst, into that. If it weren’t that this kingdom is his _home_ , his people badly in need of protection and rescue, he’d run away with Diaval tomorrow, join a world of magic and delights and forget all about serving a mad king.

But that isn’t a life he has, and he has to settle for little snatches of paradise, like kissing his lover hard in his dungeon. He doesn’t stop until Diaval jerks his head away, shivering lightly and gasping for air—he isn’t so adept in this form, and breathing through his nose still eludes him at times. It adds a flare of cuteness to his allure, and John smiles fondly as he kisses the curved mark on Diaval’s cheek. He insists, “You’ll be more careful, won’t you?” Because he couldn’t _bare_ if this happened when he wasn’t here. If he came back to find his lover really in a cell, a cage, or mishandled under brainwashed soldiers’ hands, he’d be furious. 

Diaval looks at him with a mischievous glint in those dark eyes and mutters, “Well, what is the point even of being with the captain of the guards if I’m not granted some leeway?” For the times when John is away. John still laughs. 

“I should keep you in these ropes just to teach you a lesson,” he teases. But his breath catches a second later when he sees panic cross Diaval’s face, shoulders suddenly tensing. It draws John’s attention to Diaval’s arms and reminds him, oh, yes, that isn’t fair. He quickly mutters, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.” He’s around the back of the column in a heartbeat, tugging at the tangle of knots his guards have left. 

Diaval sniffs and says, “That’s alright. But I would appreciate having free arms again.” Arms that used to be wings. Having them clipped isn’t fun for a bird. John wrestles the ropes loose, until they’re slack enough for Diaval to wiggle out of, and they drop to the floor around his feet. 

He steps out of them and turns in a quick, graceful movement, one second on the other side of the column and the next in John’s arms, wrapping his own tight around John’s back. He clings to John with an almost excessive tightness, a fierce grip that shows his lack of human experience, his lack of company most of the time, of his need to be back with someone he doesn’t see nearly enough. It’s yet another reason why John often stays awake at night, wishing the world was different. That his king was different.

He leans into the embrace, nestled against Diaval’s sleek, black hair, and murmurs, “I have no new information for you.” For Maleficent. King Stefan’s done nothing of late but the usual crazed rants. He can feel Diaval shake his head. 

“I didn’t come for that this time. I just wanted some... companionship.” Of course. He says the great faerie has her surrogate daughter, and he has them to an extent, but... a lot of people, birds and human alike, need someone _special_.

But it’s the first time Diaval’s risked coming here just for that, and as John holds his lover close, he mutters, “I’m glad of it.” He misses Diaval too much. And Diaval’s raven form is handsome but difficult to lie with. As John pulls back, still clinging to Diaval by the waist, he asks, voice soaked with hope, “Do you wish to stay the night?”

“I was hoping you weren’t planning to keep me down here,” Diaval chuckles, grinning brightly. He’s pretty anytime, but he’s best when he smiles. It occurs to John belatedly that this must be a particularly ugly room to a raven: low ceiling and no windows. 

So John slips his hand into Diaval’s, lets their fingers intertwine and tugs him towards the stairs, again suppressing the urge to run to his bed with his lover in tow.


End file.
